


Sardines

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Episode: s02e12 The Catwalk, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Night during The Catwalk.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Sardines

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek: Enterprise or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Malcolm’s old school—he’s been camping, been stranded, been cramped in small bunkers and even spent a few too many days stuck in a single shuttlepod with Trip before—so it’s not like he can’t handle sleeping in a sea of bodies. It would just be easier if there were some reason to where people threw their linens down—they’re _supposed_ to be a top of the line crew, supposed to have some semblance of order. He knows the senior staff didn’t have nearly enough time to quarter off the catwalk by individual square-feet—he didn’t either. He would’ve just liked if the crew manifested it on their own. They should’ve all laid their sleeping bags out in neat line, which would’ve allowed for at least an arm’s length between each person. 

Instead, it’s a mess of humans, one Denobulan, a Vulcan, and three strangers that Malcolm’s mildly suspicious of, even though Trip tells him to get over it because he’s suspicious of everyone.

Trip says a lot of things, like that he’ll bunk with Captain Archer and Sub-Commander T’Pol, except he comes back half an hour later with a sheepish look. If they were alone, Malcolm would tease him about being the third wheel. But they’re not alone. Travis is lying half a meter away with an old fashioned tablet, still very much awake and listening. Most of them are lying down, but not enough people are sleeping. Malcolm can’t sleep either. His eyes follow Trip’s muscular form through the dimmed light reflecting off the bulkheads. Malcolm doesn’t know where Trip put his sleeping bag down but isn’t surprised when he doesn’t bother rifling through the dark to find it.

Malcolm’s only half surprised when Trip stops beside him and toes the line between Malcolm’s back and Hoshi’s. Then he’s squirming in, and Malcolm closes his eyes, praying Hoshi’s asleep. In some ways, this is better. They don’t have to sneak to each others’ quarters and hope nobody sees. _Everybody’s_ squished together. On the other hand, Trip can be so bloody _obvious_.

He lays down behind Malcolm and even throws an arm casually across Malcolm’s waist, as though there’s any way in hell they can get away with that. Malcolm pushes it off before anyone can notice. Trip huffs quietly against the back of his neck, “Really? You’re going to do this _now_?”

Malcolm wrinkles his nose, even though Trip can’t see it. He could roll over and show his annoyance, but Trip has to know already—they’ve been at all each other’s throats all day. They always are when they’re forced together for too long. Maybe it’s a good thing they have separate quarters. Maybe it’s good that Malcolm absolutely doesn’t entertain fantasies of eventually retiring to a nice cottage in the countryside, maybe in the Cotswolds, or at worse, a Texan ranch with his then-husband and their two or three dogs.

He can feel Trip’s annoyed puff of breath along his collar, tickling his skin. He wants to shiver but holds it down. He resists the urge to turn around again because it’ll only make things worse—if they’re face to face, the tips of their noses touching and their lips parted and close enough to _taste_ , it’ll just be a matter of time before they devolve into teeth and tongue and roaming hands and lose both their ranks in the process. 

Maybe it would be better if they never slept together at all. Because he’s all too familiar with the feeling of Trip’s body, and when Trip shifts just that fraction closer, Malcolm can feel a distinct bulge against his backside. He knows exactly what it is. He also knows that it doesn’t mean anything, because it’d be a lot larger and firmer if Trip really was trying to tempt him. Trip’s knee runs along the back of his thigh, hands curled between his shoulder blades. 

Malcolm forces out a tight, “Good night, Commander,” and lets that be all. His voice is full of finality. Trip should get the message. _Behave._

Trip lets out a palpably begrudging sigh. “’Night, Lieutenant.”

But an hour later, when Malcolm’s half asleep, the arm’s around his waist again, and by then he’s melted enough to let it stay.


End file.
